


Dead To Me

by yaymikeyway



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Arson, Car Accidents, Dark, Frank is a transboy, M/M, Trans Character, frank has parents i made up, frank's dad sets the house on fire, gerard is a ghost, kinda gets intense haha, mikey and gee aren't brothers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:04:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaymikeyway/pseuds/yaymikeyway
Summary: Frank is a transboy who has been beaten by every bully in the school. One day he finds out that a few ghostly presences have been drawn to his house and needs to help them crossover. In the process, he finds that he's falling for one of the ghosts, Gerard, who is haunting him.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this for my creative writing class but I figured I'd post it on here because I'm proud of it.

The old town had a strange buzz; streetlights humming constantly, telephone wires crackling overhead, the air was fresh and crisp. Taking a deep breath, he takes off. His heart is racing, hands sweating even in the cold October air. He can hear their thunderous footsteps over his. The ground shakes as his heart feels like it’s going to give out, but he pushes harder and tears down the pavement. The steps are even louder now, like a stampede of hate. Suddenly his feet are gone from beneath him and his chest makes harsh contact with the unforgiving ground. All the air rushes from his lungs in an abrupt and painful impact with the ground. The contact was like that of a car crash. The glass of his chest shatters as the already too tight ace bandage crushes his lungs and his heart. He feels it stop beating as the ringing in his ears is too loud to bear. A foot in his already broken ribs makes the pain scream it's way past his lips. His fragile limbs are no match against the crushing force of their cannon-like blows. His chest heaves as his lungs brokenly try to pull in as much oxygen as possible. It’s not much but he’s still conscious. It’s torture, really. He can’t move, can't fight back, can’t scream for help… But his cruel mind keeps him alive enough to feel every unrelenting kick, every slam into the brick wall of the old pizzeria on 42nd, every thump of blood rushing through his ears. He’s punished by people who think they are entitled to shame him for trying to be as comfortable as he can in his own skin. Bloody, bruised, and broken inside and out, he scrapes his nonexistent nails on the sidewalk trying, however futilely, to escape. They drag him back into the alley, now stomping on his hands as his weak screams of pain fuel their animosity. An idea shows up in his head. He stops screaming, ignores his instinct to curl up into a ball, lets his abdomen relax, pretends to be unconscious or dead, and lays there. He hopes this will stop them, and he’s right. The boys promptly walk away, one turning back to spit at his seemingly lifeless form and take off down the sidewalk- laughing with each other and hooting as they run away from their victim. This is a typical day in Frank’s life.


	2. "home"

I wake up. I can’t move and it's pitch dark. I’m cold, so I guess I’m outside but I can’t remember how or when I got here. I try to pick up my arm but it feels like it's been stapled to the concrete. I try to move my leg and there’s a sharp, shooting pain accompanied by a dull ache that tells me that my ankle is broken.   
Memories of the last few hours flood my brain and I remember everything. The hateful words, the crunching of my bones between their boots and the gravel, the blood… I pick my head up the best I can and try to pull my arms under me to stand up. It doesn’t work and I make merciless contact with the ground several times before I’m on my knees with my forehead pressed against the brick wall. I grab onto it as best as I can and pull myself up. My ribs feel broken, my head is pounding, and I feel like I’m dying. A few more kicks to my ribs and they would have punctured my lungs and I would have suffocated. Why couldn’t they just kill me? Why leave me here to rot on the walkway? I stand up as best as I can with an arm around my middle and one on the wall, trying to keep my balance as I slowly hobble home.  
The yellow light of my quiet childhood house appears in the distance. I’m so close and yet I’ve been walking for what feels like hours. I limp my way towards the porch- even though I’m tempted to say screw the house and run into the woods next to it, never looking back- out of breath and dead tired. I unlock the door and enter, collapsing on the couch. Mom and Dad must’ve gone out because I'm alone. I hear rustling in the kitchen and call out for my mother. No answer. I stand up as best as I can, walking towards the sound. The kitchen cupboard is open and the floor is soaking wet. The smell of Pine Sol grows stronger as I approach the kitchen. Maybe Dad left it open before he left. It doesn’t explain the Pine Sol or the wet floor, but I don’t have the mental strength to try to figure out an excuse for it. So I leave it. Carefully, I close the cupboard, grab an ice pack from the freezer, and sit back down in the lounge.   
After an hour or so of alternating the ice on my ribs and my ankle, I go to the bathroom to search for the first aid kit. Pill bottles of various kinds are scattered across the floor and the sink. I call out for my dad this time and, again, there's no answer. A bit worried now, I pick up the bottles and put them back. I check under the sink in the drawer and spot the first aid kit. I pull out the bandages and Neosporin and clean up the cuts on my face, placing a small happy face band-aid on each of them. Irony, you cruel man. I fix up a few more of the smaller cuts on my hands and arms, stopping at the ones I know are on my thighs. Not yet. I take off my shirt carefully and slowly, revealing the ace bandage wound tightly around my chest. I unravel it gingerly, being able to breathe better without it, despite the tears welling up in my eyes at the sight of my chest and the purple-ish black, angry bruises scattered across my ribs. Placing my elbows on the sink, I let myself relax entirely and hear an alarming wheeze push its way past my throat. I hope I’m not getting sick again. I grab the ice pack off the ground and press it to the bruise, hissing at the cold. I don't know how exactly to fix broken ribs, so I place bandages on the cuts across my abdomen and roll the ace bandage back up. I sit on the side of the bathtub and put my injured foot up. I move the ice to the swollen area of my ankle and hold it time with my bad hand, hoping to kill two birds with one stone with the ice pack. I reach for the first aid kit and it falls off the sink. Great. I reach down as carefully as I can, grabbing the ace bandage and wrapping it around my ankle. I keep the ice there and take as deep of a breath as I can without it hurting. I decided to treat myself a little and run myself a bath, watching as the warm water fills up the porcelain white tub. This bathroom was the only room Mom cared about when they renovated, so everything is pearly white and smoky gray marble. I remove the rest of my clothes and let my fragile form sink into the water. I scrunch my face up as the water makes my open wounds sting. I let myself relax as the water soothes the bruises on my body. A knock at the door wakes me out of my exhausted relaxation and I call out for my parents, hoping they’re home to take me to the hospital. I’m not particularly fond of doctors or hospitals- like at all, but I need something stronger for the pain radiating from my ribs in particular. Maybe they can prescribe me some of those super strong painkillers. I doubt my parents would take me though; they would probably tell me I deserve to be beaten within an inch of my life. And if they’re not yet, this whole town is convinced I do…   
I stand up and out of the tub and dry off, draining the water from the tub as well. I pick up the rest of the first aid supplies and put them back in the drawer. I grab the ice pack and ace bandage, walking to my room upstairs. Stairs suck. Actually, when your ribs are broken, stairs really suck. It takes me about fifteen minutes to get up the evil stairs and to my room. I shut my door behind me and turn on my lights. The happy yellow glow of fairy lights twinkle around my room and guide me to my bed. I sit down, beyond exhausted, and let myself sleep. I’ll deal with everything else in the morning.


	3. phantoms

“Ray?” he called, wandering into the kitchen while he was on his hands and knees, scrubbing away at a spot of black something on the floor.  
“What do you want Gerard? I’m trying to clean up the house. I don’t have time for your nonsense,” he snapped, “You should be down here helping me, not sitting on your ass while you make all of these poor boy’s belongings float around. Last week you shattered his vase of carnations and yesterday you nearly broke a window with his baseball collection,” Ray muttered angrily, scrubbing the spot away harder.  
“Then I guess you won’t help me pick up the pills that I knocked over in the bathroom then, huh?” he said quietly, he smirked a bit as he spoke. He was already turning around and leaping through the opposite wall to get a headstart on the angered spirit, hoping he’d chase him. They way his angry eyebrows came together always amused the dead boy.  
“Idiot! I told you to be careful! This isn’t our house, you know!” he shouted, not even bothering to chase after him. “And in case you forgot, we’re both dead, numbskull; both of us can walk through walls. And doors. And windows. And ascend through ceilings. Nice try, though. A for effort,” he said sarcastically, dunking the sponge into the soapy water and wiping away some other stains on the floor.  
Gerard floats the short distance to the bathroom on the second level and plants his feet on the floor in the doorway. He hears a few birds chirping from the open window and rises up to it.  
“He’s home!” Gerard sing-songs, looking out of the high window, much like the ones you’d find in a prison. He smiles a little, walking downstairs.  
“Can you help me put the mop bucket in the closet? I’ll finish after he goes to bed," Ray sighed, wringing the sponge out and waiting for Gerard to come and help. When he didn’t, he called his name, peering around the doorframe of the kitchen and observing as he stared out of the window quizzically.  
“Gerard, honey? What’s wrong?” he spoke softly, his inner mom showing through his irritated façade.  
“He’s limping and his face is all cut up. He’s home way later than usual- it’s nearly eight,” Gerard said sadly, knowing he couldn’t go outside and help the boy in. “I swear to God if anyone put their hands on my boy…” he said through clenched teeth, fists balling up- ready to strike.  
Gerard always felt possessive over the teen, wanting to protect him since the day he saw Frank’s bright light as it cast an aura over his whole house. Gerard watched it from afar for a few days, noticing changes in the color the glow was projecting. Some days it was white and pure, others a deep, angry red. But on the worst days, his light was barely there, just a small spark of gray over his room. Those were the nights that he thought he wouldn’t see morning- the nights he wished he wouldn’t see morning. However, the next day he woke up and the color was pale yellow, signifying a recovery process that would usually last for a few days afterward. Gerard loved to watch his aura; he loved to see it change when Frank got really into a good book or a movie. His parents, on the other hand, had very different hues. His father was fiery red, angry and unnecessarily entitled. His mother a deep blue, showing signs of long-lasting sadness, disappointment, and loss. Gerard kept a close watch on her aura. He noticed that it stayed that same blue for almost two years. He almost felt bad for that poor woman, if she wasn’t such an awful person. She was the first person Frank told about his decision to change his name and pronouns and she was the first person to utterly humiliate him for it. She drank too much that day and called all of his family, ranting and raving about how screwed up her kid was and how he would live his entire life as an “unloved faggot.” Gerard wished nothing but sadness for that woman. She doesn’t deserve such a wonderful son.  
“Let’s go clean up, dear. I’m sure his parents will be home soon, and he’s almost sixteen. He can take care of himself,” Ray reassured him, placing his hand on his shoulder.  
“Not if he has broken ribs! Can’t you see that he’s hurting? Doesn’t that upset you?” Gerard shouted, exasperated, tears starting to well up in his eyes.  
“Now I know that you’re mad, so I know you don’t mean that,” Gerard nodded as Ray spoke, feeling bad for shouting at him, “Go pick up the pills in the bathroom. I’ll get the mop bucket,"  
Gerard took his time as he made his way up the stairs, forgetting his previous task and wandering into the young boy’s room. He moved slowly, taking in the strong vanilla and lavender scent, sighing as it calmed him. He took a deep breath, walking over to Frank’s bed, seeing a piece of paper poking out from under his pillow. He lifted the pillow and pulled it out. Ray always yelled at him for snooping like this, but his curiosity usually got the best of him and he gave in. He always put things back though- always. Gerard unfolded the paper and read the text on the first page. Some of the handwriting was sloppily crossed out, other parts were hard to read or drifted down the page as if the writer couldn’t see what they were writing.

I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone. ~~This is~~ Mom, Dad, please forgive me. This wasn’t your fault. ~~I never~~ Don’t cry for me. I’m happy now, I promise. Move on with your lives, you’ll forget about me and everyone will be happy again. ~~No one wanted m~~ I love you. 

The tears in his eyes came back, stronger than ever, as black lines streamed down his face. He noticed small circles of crinkled paper at the bottom and realized they were dried teardrops. Gerard folded the paper up, smearing black ink all over the back of the page as his hands were wet with his own tears. Breaking his own rule, he placed the paper in his pocket and stood upon hearing the front door open.


	4. dreamer

I wake up to the smell of pancakes and peek my head out of the warm cocoon of blankets. I stretch as best as I can without my injured body protesting too much and swing my legs around the edge of my bed, sitting up. I grab the now melted ice pack, standing up to put it back in the freezer for later. I hobble down the stairs, my bruised and cut up face meets my mother’s happy one. She looks at me and smiles, looking back down to the pancakes she’s tending to.  
“What happened to your face, honey? And why are you limping?” she asks me, walking over and kissing my head.  
“Nothing,” I say, taken aback by the compassion my mother shows me.  
“D’you need to see a doctor? Your Dad and I can take you after breakfast,” she offers, smiling and looking into my eyes. That itself is out of character. My mother hasn’t looked me in the eyes for almost two years now.  
“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother-” my mother shakes her head, cutting me off.  
“Nonsense. Go get dressed, sweetie, Your father and I will be right here when you come down,” she said smiling.  
I walk up the stairs slowly, noticing that my pain isn’t as bad anymore. I get dressed quickly, throwing on jeans and a t-shirt, no chest binder. As I come down the stairs, I smell fire. All of a sudden, my house is filled with smoke, and ashes float through the air. I turn the corner to the kitchen and I see a woman I’ve never seen before in my life lying on the ground, her flesh slowly turning black as flames lick their way across her form. I’m horrified as I turn around to run back to my room when I hear screaming and shouting. I follow the sound to the back porch. I take the back door out into the warm June air and end up looping around to the front. I stop upon seeing a man on the porch, red gasoline tank in hand, lighting match after match and throwing them into the house. Suddenly, there's a boy’s scream, and something possesses me to run towards the awful man. I end up running through him and straight back up the stairs. I walk through plumes of fire and burning objects as if they’re not even there. The walls of the house are collapsing in on me and the unfamiliar furniture. I suddenly come to the realization that I’m not in my house; I’m in a stranger’s house. I hear crying coming from downstairs and I follow the sound warily. A tall boy, maybe 17, is duct-taped to a chair with a rag in his mouth. He’s screaming and crying and trying to get out of his binds. I walk towards him, attempting to help. I pull the rag out of his mouth and he's pushing his face closer to mine.   
“This is how I died. I can’t bear the thought of you wanting this. Death is nothing to be anticipated, it’s painful. Not just for the person dying, mind you, it hurts everyone that ever knew them. I will protect you from meeting a fate like this. I will keep you alive long enough to want it. Wake up, Frank. Wake up,"   
The figure screams again as the fire engulfs the chair and the boy and my eyes snap open. I’m lying in my bed and I’m drenched in sweat. Standing up shakily and panting, I hobble to the small bathroom connected to my room. I turn on the shower, looking into the mirror at my reflection. I barely recognize it. Something feels off about me. I brush it off as just being that weird nightmare. A cold gust of air chills me to the bone and I feel a frozen, bony hand on my shoulder. Flashbacks of the dream whizz past my vision and I see something I didn’t at first. A large sign that reads, “Bellerose“ in big, fancy, script carved into a wooden slab hanging near the garden in front of the house. I shake the thoughts out of my head and the hand off my shoulder, hopping in the shower and washing the memories from my body. All of my cuts and bruises are healing pretty fast. My ribs and my ankle are taking their sweet time, though. It’s Saturday morning, so I know my parents are already out on the golf course, or on their rich friend’s yacht, or out wine tasting with Thomas (another weird rich dude) forgetting they have a kid. But it’s fine because I like being alone anyway…  
I get out, and out of my head, and walk over to my computer. I open my browser and search ‘Bellerose family fire’. After a second, thousands of search results appear in front of my eyes. The same cold chill brushes past me and I ignore it now. I click on the first one, a newspaper article, and start reading. 

Today at 11:06 am, two people were found dead in Princeton, New Jersey after Dr. Elijah Bellérose was found guilty on two counts of murder and one count of arson. He is facing these charges after setting his family home on fire while his son and wife were inside during a drug-induced rage. Our entire community will forever mourn the loss of Gerard N. Bellérose and Danielle B. Jacobs-Bellérose.

I turn my head away from the screen, the cold rush is stronger than ever. Despite my freezing body temperature, I grab my ankle brace- Mom must’ve put it in my room while I was asleep- and strap it on. I shove myself into the constricting fabric that makes me feel whole and put on a pair of faded jeans and my favorite Pink Floyd shirt. I head for the door, noticing that it’s much easier to walk with the brace. I hear a pen fall off my desk and I jump out of fright. There’s a small piece of green paper now on my desk, the other objects and papers seem to have been pushed away from it. I stand up and read what’s scribbled on the little notepad. It’s an address and it’s only down the street.


	5. fate

I walk downstairs and watch as my poor boy is broken, beaten, and bruised. He sits on the couch as gently as possible and I fight the urge to walk over and help him. I could ask him if he needs anything. I stop myself from giving in and holding him in my arms like a baby. I want so badly to tell him I’m here and I love him and he’s safe. But I don’t. I keep my distance and watch him rest on the ugly beige sofa as Ray floats around the house, snagging my arm and dragging me upstairs with him.   
“What the hell?” he whisper-yells, smacking my arm, “Why didn’t you pick these up?” the spirit huffs and bends over, trying to grab the bottles on the floor. After struggling for a moment, he straightens back up and turns to me.   
“Gerard Nubio Bellérose, I am going to kill you,” he grumbles, blowing a stray curl out of his face.   
“Sorry, honey, you can't kill what’s already dead!” I chuckle, passing through the ceiling, up to the roof. He joins me as we both re-materialize and sit on the house. He grabs my hand and looks at it quizzically.   
“Why were you crying?” he asks, turning my hand so I can see the black ink on my pale skin he’s referring to. I was really hoping he wouldn't see that.   
“Nothing. It’s no big deal,” I answer, taking my hand back and focusing my eyes on a bird flying up over the house.   
“You’re lying; I know that face. You must remember that I’ve known you for over six years now; you can’t hide anything from me. I know you better than anyone and you know that I wouldn’t mess with you over something like this. Tell me what happened. I’m all ears,” he said, smiling compassionately and turning his body to face me.   
“Did you… want… to die?” I spoke slowly and quietly, not really wanting to say the words I knew I had to.   
“No, of course not. I was young, I had just moved out of my parents’ house. I was going to have the job of my dreams,” he said, his face glowing like the bright orange sun above us, “I was going to Washington State to become a botanist. I always loved nature and I wanted to be surrounded by it ever since I was little. I had my own little greenhouse with my stepmom where we planted a whole bunch of different vegetables and fruits and flowers… It was my own personal heaven. I loved going in there after school and tending to all my happy plants, recording their data and making little labels for each of the pots. My father said I would never make a living off of it. He always wanted me to be a doctor, a lawyer, or a psychiatrist- like him. When I died I was going over to see him in New York. I was doing fifty on the Parkway in the rain. I knew it wasn’t a good idea, but he was sick and I needed to get to him. Someone drifted into my lane and I tried to hit the brakes, but because of all the rain, I just skidded and ended up slamming into them head-on. Thankfully the other driver and his wife were saved. Me, not so lucky. I died on impact and was thrown thirty feet from my car. My neck was broken instantly though, so I didn’t suffer, which was all I wanted. I just didn't want my family to think I died sad or scared or in pain. And, hey! I’m doin’ alright now! It’s almost like I have a kid after all. Oh, and Frank’s pretty cool, too,” he laughed, shoving my shoulder. He smiled at me and I smiled back sheepishly, “Why do you ask?”  
“I know we have a super strict rule about not snooping, but I couldn’t leave this. I found something in Frank’s room. You’re not allowed to get mad at me or at him- especially not at him,” I reached a slightly shaking hand into my left pocket and pulled out the smudge covered paper. I took a deep breath and handed it to Ray.  
He unfolded it slowly, his eyes scanning over the words on the page, “I don’t understand…” he said, his eyes threatening to spill pitch black ink over his pale cheeks the same way mine had earlier, “He wrote this? What can we do?” I had only seen him cry one other time, and this caught me off guard. He was usually really good at keeping his emotions under control but I heard a small sniffle as I felt a cold hand grab mine. I hadn’t realized I was crying, too. He pulled me close to his chest and hugged me hard as I felt his tears seep through the fabric of my shirt.   
“We have to help him. We can’t let him do this alone,” I said softly, rubbing small circles on his back, “C’mon. Let’s go inside; it’s getting late,” He nodded after a moment and released me from the hug.  
We fell back through the roof and Ray wiped the tears off of his face with the back of his hand as we stood in the kitchen for a long time in silence.  
After a few minutes, I spoke up softly, “We can’t just materialize in front of him, we’ll scare the hell out of the poor kid. How about we let him figure out about us. I could show him what happened to me and lead him to my old house. If he goes in, I could find a way to tell him about us,” He looked over at me, nodding a little.   
“That could work. When he finds out about one ghost haunting him, I’m sure it’ll be a piece of cake finding that there’s actually two,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes at me.  
“Do you have a better plan? ‘Cause I’m all ears,” I sighed, throwing my hands up in the air, he shook his head and looked away, “That’s what I thought. It’s not the best plan ever crafted, but it could work. I’ll show him tonight,"  
“Show him? What are you going to do?” Ray asked.  
I shook my head once more, “You’ll see."


	6. memory

I tread down the street, my skin tingling in the chilly air. I saw the opening in the forest, a small gap that opened up to a narrow driveway. The house from my dream is in the distance and suddenly all the air in my lungs is water and I can’t cough it out. I keep walking, the charred home getting closer as I approach.  
I look up at the secluded house and the oxygen is suddenly back in my lungs in full. The house is larger than I remembered with two large lion statues on either side of the front porch that I didn’t notice before. I guess not all dreams are perfectly accurate. My hand reached out before I could stop it, stroking over the large white lion. The black ash rubbed off on my fingers and I shivered at the chalky feeling. I pulled my hand away and forced myself to walk up the stairs, taking deep breaths as I ascended into the blackened structure. The porch gave an exhausted groan as I put my weight on it, taking slow and careful steps.   
Images from my dream flooded back to me as I walked into what was left of this old home. I saw the face of the boy tied to the chair as I felt a cold hand, much like the one from earlier, on mine. I squeezed my hand into a fist this time, not shying away from the feeling. With each step I took, the feeling got more and more real.  
I saw something out of the corner of my eye dart through the living room and I followed it. As soon as I stepped into the large room, I noticed there were vines snaking their way through the cracks and spaces in the walls. Moss accompanied them, creating soft tufts of green in the corners of the burnt room. Some spots were almost untouched- beige paint shone through at me, smiling brightly as the few pure stars in the room. All the memories of this old house played through like a movie in my head.   
The walls are light blue and two proud parents hold their small infant. The kiss they share is full of happiness and love and excitement for their new lives.   
The room whirls around me and the boy is older now, running through a nicely furnished home, laughing as he throws himself onto the couch. His mother is there waiting with open arms and the biggest smile.   
They laugh together and suddenly the room changes again.  
Now the walls are a sullen grey and the boy is a teenager, stomping up the stairs. His mother is covered in bruises as she scrubs at a plate in the kitchen. The door slams closed and she flinches like a beaten dog. A man walks in, throws his arms around the woman roughly and takes a deep breath in, inhaling her scent. He smirks and backs away, watching him carefully. She tenses up when he touches her again, his hands around her fragile waist now, and he doesn’t like it very much. He winds back and throws his fist at her. there’s a scream and the room is different once more.   
I look around, realizing my cheeks are wet with tears and the room is back to the charred mess it first was. I shake off the horrid feeling in my heart and walk further into the room.   
“Frank,” a voice says out of nowhere. I spin around, looking for the source, my heart beating rapidly.   
“Who’s there? Who said that?” I ask frantically, shivering uncontrollably as I’m aware of how cold it is in here now.   
“I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help,” the voice echoes, it sounds like it's coming from the foyer so I walk through the doorway once more.   
“Help? Help me with what?” I stop, a real hand on my shoulder this time, warm and comforting. I turn around slowly, looking up to find a pale boy in his late teens looking down at me with a warm smile. His dark eyes glittering with gold. All the air from my lungs is suddenly gone and my eyes are wider than before.   
Without enough time to process it, my feet are taking me past the boy and through the door. My lungs are heaving as I’m running on my bad ankle but I can’t stop myself. I’m down the stairs and away from the house in record time.  
"Wait!" a voice calls after me, "I only want to help!" the boy says, materializing in front of me. He grabs my wrist and pulls me to the ground, pinning me there with an unbelievable strength. The pain was excruciating but I was seriously curious as to who the fuck this guy was and why he wanted me so bad and why he was able to disappear. In a panic, I said just that to him.   
He laughed, getting off of me, helping me to my feet.  
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you,” he said, pulling me into a hug.   
“What the fuck?! Are you some kind of weird stalker?” I asked, pushing away from him.   
“No! Look. This is weird, but I’m just gonna say it. My name is Gerard and I’m dead, I have been for about five years. I’m a ghost and I have been living in your house for three years because your light really interests me. I know how your family treats you and it kills me because you’re such a sweet boy and you only deserve the best. I live in your house with another ghost named Ray and he’s the best. I know this is a shock but you have to trust me. If you let me, I’ll introduce you to him," Gerard rushed out, looking me in the eyes. I stood rigidly, staring at him with my mouth dropped open.   
Without thinking, I started walking back to my house. I needed to escape. So I did. I turned quickly on my heels and started back, leaving Gerard in my tracks.


End file.
